one of the two highest points of my week:

Spent afternoon putzing around the Santa Cruz market, buying okra, eggs for Ma, knobby heirloom tomatoes, gigantic green beans (they looked like shelling beans to me!), a bundle of basil, 3 heirloom zukes, 2 teeny pears, onions, onions, onions and 2 mini pumpkins.

Visited old farming chums; chit-chatted with favorite farm gals.
Omnipresent heat, moping brows, but un-dampened moods.

Rose in the dark; strapped on my walking shoes.

6:17am - Sunrise at the top of Tumamoc Hill

On the hike down, Lisa and I spotted two hot air balloons, way out in the distance. But as we drove back toward our neighborhood, we saw a balloon directly over the freeway! From a short distance down the road, it looked like the balloonists were prone to getting garbled in the telephone wires, but that was a trick of the eye. At the stoplight we waved; they waved back!

"Water Drops for Migrants: Kindness, or Offense?"

Dan's in the NY Times again!

swim-time in the southwest

Cooling off.

9.27.2010 - Sunrise, 6:15am on the nose

Walked these quiet streets, mostly alone, save a few silent bikers and a toothy, old woman who had me retrieve her newspaper from the gravely part of her yard.

It's supposed to be 102 on Tuesday...

...but I'm trying to coax Fall to come a little sooner, with good, autumnal smells from the little kitchen.

Letter to N.Y.

I drove down Campbell Avenue and listened to Terry Gross and David Rakoff on "Fresh Air" this past Tuesday afternoon. Just before David signed off, he shared this Elizabeth Bishop poem, and now I can't stop thinking about it. I don't get the wheat & oats part at the end, and while usually I get irked by poetic ambiguity (or at least, phrases I don't get), I dig this poem.

P.S. If you'd like to hear David read it - and he recited it so beautifully - visit this audio link and fast-forward 36 minutes, 18 seconds.

Letter to N.Y.
For Louise Crane

In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays, and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:

taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road goes round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,

and the trees look so queer and green
standing alone in big black caves
and suddenly you're in a different place
where everything seems to happen in waves,

and most of the jokes you just can't catch,
like dirty words rubbed off a slate,
and the songs are loud but somehow dim
and it gets so terribly late,

and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.

—Wheat, not oats, dear. I'm afraid
if it's wheat it's none of your sowing,
nevertheless I'd like to know
what you are doing and where you are going.

Elizabeth Bishop

anticipation.

remembering friends in Guatemala

"Once social change begins, it cannot be reversed. You cannot un-educate the person who has learned to read. You cannot humiliate the person who feels pride. You cannot oppress the people who are not afraid anymore."

Cesar Chavez
Address to the Commonwealth Club in San Francisco, Nov. 9, 1984

Spent lunch break reading about farm labor, the UFW, civil rights and non-violence.

a morning caesura

homemade chai in the french press

Late-Summer Harvest

It's time to start ripping out the droopy, bolted plants and think about a fall/winter harvest of greens, greens, greens. Yesterday, in the late afternoon, I picked a little pile of the last of summer's bounty: a few heirloom eggplants and hot peppers, a bed of herbs (parsley, sage, chives) and a couple baby onions.

P.S. Prep for our last round of pesto (our fourth basil harvest since Spring)!